


perihelion

by idolatry (bellmare)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Childhood shenanigans, NaNoWriMo 2016, Origin Story, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9078334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellmare/pseuds/idolatry
Summary: My dear lost one, your parents failed in raising you.-- ???, and dreams of simpler times.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this unedited because if I wait to edit this it might never see the light of day until 2020. 
> 
> My Nanowrimo 2016 project should very well have been renamed to 'Pointless Waffling: See How Long I Can Meander Around Describing Scenery In Order To Make The Wordcount'.

Lei was born two years after Yan. At first, she was angry. Or, at least, as angry as a child could be in a distinctly directionless, petulant way. Who was this, come to upstage her? Who was this, to take the attention away from her? 

But she understood, even then, what it meant for him. Perhaps it was better that way. She didn't know why; she couldn't put it into words. Being the first was not necessarily the best thing; perhaps it were better to lose, sometimes.

Lei was pale, like her, the colour leached from his hair and eyes. All of them were like that -- and had been for generations now, like ochre ink on a brush diluted with water, the brushstrokes getting fainter and dryer as they ran across the scroll that was her family's lineage. Yan ran her hands through her own hair, tugging at the ends; the strands were a faint ashen-gold in the light. Some things were still different, then. She stared, hard, accusatory; he regarded her with what she took to be interest, watching her every move.

It fascinated her, that small mewling thing that she gingerly patted and prodded with exaggerated care. Her mother stroked her hair, and told Yan she'd been like that, not that long ago. Yan gazed hard at her brother, and made a noise in her throat. She didn't remember being like that, and who knew better than herself? The words eluded her, and she wrinkled her nose in frustration. "Not the same," she declared, after what seemed like an age, and raised her chin in a triumphant air. The others just laughed. That, too, incensed her. She set her jaw and growled, "small! Noisy!" and that seemed to amuse them even more.

Someone -- a cousin, much older, usually distant -- reached out to ruffle her hair. Yan tolerated it for a few seconds, before attempting to bat the offending hand away. Undeterred, the cousin leaned closer to poke both her cheeks. "You're pretty small and noisy yourself, Yan."

Yan bristled and grabbed hold of the offending fingers, and bit them.  

* * *

There were no other children on the mountain, save for Lei and his sister.

They were the youngest in the family, it seemed. Even their youngest cousins -- Bai and Xiu, both from branch families -- were significantly older, ill-at-ease and awkward around Lei and Yan. They never outright declined Yan's invitations for play or roughhousing, but Lei was always aware, nonetheless, of the stiff air of formality between them. Perhaps it was something their elders had told them, to act all deferential and awestruck by descendants of the main branch; Lei saw the way his cousins acted around each other, and how everything seemed to change when he and Yan showed up, as though someone had flipped a switch. With each other, his cousins joked and messed around, seemingly without a care in the world. They seemed to treat him and his sister with a strange combination of feelings Lei couldn't quite pinpoint. Sometimes, he thought he saw pity in their eyes -- a confused sort of sympathy, though he had no idea why -- and other times it was guarded curiosity, though they never asked him anything, nor did they say anything beyond what would be considered polite and conversational. It wasn't as if they were outwardly unfriendly; if Yan insisted, they would indulge her, though Lei always got the sense that they were holding back somehow, as though uncertain of how to act around the two of them. To that end, Lei found it rather inane and boring; after a while, Yan, too, seemed to lose interest in attempting to coax any further responses from their cousins.

When Yan gave up, eventually, she took to making a nuisance of herself alone, getting in the way of their older relatives in some bid for attention or another. At first, she appeared to tolerate his company, as though impatient at having to wait and watch over him as he ambled awkwardly after her, trying to get used to the sensation of shifting. She seemed to keep him at arm's length, as though uncertain of what to make for him, though that changed as he got older and she, too, got used to him. In a way, Lei could sometimes see where she was coming from -- he wasn't sure he would adapt that well to suddenly having a sibling trailing around after him, and suddenly diverting all the family's attention, and asking all sorts of questions about all sorts of things.

In his first few years, she taught him many things -- how to shapeshift, and not lose control halfway through. How to climb trees quickly and easily, and how to chase small, fast things like insects and falling peach blossoms, because in her opinion that was the best way to learn good hand-eye coordination. Lei knew that she liked to do other things, too, but when he asked her about them she just shrugged.

"You're too young," she finally said with a smug air of superiority, and patted him on the head. "You can join me in sometime, just not yet. Maybe when you can climb a tree and balance while walking across a branch without almost falling off. Mother will never forgive me if anything happens to you."

"Mother won't forgive _you_  if anything happens to you," Lei pointed out. "You're the eldest."

Yan looked affronted. "I know what I'm doing, and you don't. And, what, you think that just because you're not the eldest, it means you're a spare in case anything happens to me?"

Lei stared at her. "A spare?" he asked, because while he knew what spares meant, he had never heard about it in reference to another person before. "What do you mean, a spare? It's not like I can replace you and nobody will know. Not like that time we broke that vase and--"

"No, stop, stop talking!" Yan said loudly, and clapped both hands over his mouth. "Nobody's meant to know!"

"That's the _point_! What do you mean I'm a spare? Anyone will know if anything happened to you, it's not like we can just bring another you out from a dusty storeroom somewhere and hope nobody knows any better!"

"Maybe they can!"

"Huh?" Lei took a moment to process this. "What?" he said finally.

"What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"What yourself!"

In the end, Lei knew there was no point in arguing any further. Still, he felt envious of Yan, for having so much freedom and being able to leave the family compound. Unlike him, she could go almost wherever she wanted, and she would come back in the evenings as the sky faded from orange to purple, hair wet and her face smudged and dirty. She told him about all sorts of things she saw -- huge, yawning caves and glittering waterfalls; multitudes of plants and trees and flowers that were different from the ones that grew around the family home; misty views of the other mountains, their shapes blurry and indistinct because of the distance. Sometimes, she even brought back things she found -- perfectly round river-stones and pebbles, worn smooth by the water; interesting rocks of all shapes and sizes and colours, some opaque and some translucent, some banded with streaks of colour that looked very much like their own striped coats. Sometimes, these rocks even had strange little things embedded in them, bits of shells and imprints of what looked like fish and other small animals, looking like they were pressed into the stones.

Once, she brought back an entire horn or antler of some kind, broken off near the base. They had a brilliant time playing with it, tossing it back and forth between them and batting it with their paws. Lei almost broke his teeth chewing on the prongs at the end, and gave upon that particular venture. Another time, Yan showed him a brilliant assortment of feathers she had found, some iridescent blue and green, others banded with more muted slabs of tawny and black. If anything, it just made Lei all the more impatient, eagerly awaiting the day he, too, could leave the compound and see the rest of the mountain for himself. More than that, he thought about the world, and what it would be like beyond the mountain. Surely there was more beyond this, more beyond the snow-capped peaks that surrounded the family home. 

At least Yan had said she'd wait for him, and that made Lei feel a little better. Sometimes, she stayed around with him and they just passed lazy afternoons in the courtyard of the main compound, talking about nothing -- just like today. Or, at least they were, before Yan started talking about weird things again. Lei picked up a stone and lobbed it into the pond, and watched it sink. Sometimes, he liked it here, in the heart of the main compound, where nobody would stare. Everyone was from the main branch here anyways, and had far better things to do than keep an eye on two bored children chasing songbirds around in circles or trying to catch frogs. At least the lack of scrutiny was good, in some ways; when they'd broken that vase a few months ago, nobody had been any the wiser about the replacement he and Yan had unearthed from a room behind the courtyard, near a building with an ornate, sealed door. 

Yan had fallen uncharacteristically silent. As usual, she'd claimed the stone bench underneath the gnarled old peach tree that took pride of place in the centre of the courtyard. It was his grandmother's favourite, twisted and bent with age, its roots and branches thick and knobbly. Lei's grandmother liked cultivating peaches, for some reason or another; when he'd first asked her about it, she'd only laughed. She said she liked plants, mainly because they didn't run around and require constant attention; while he'd understood that she was joking, Lei couldn't help but feel she was partially serious, too. In a way, he could understand -- being old, perhaps it was just easier to look after things that stayed in one place and weren't very demanding. Besides, the trees were very functional. They were beautiful when they bloomed early in the spring, shedding a thick carpet of pink-white petals that were great fun to pounce or jump around in. When the trees fruited in summer, there was always plenty to eat -- his grandmother grew all kinds of peaches. Lei rather liked the firmer, white-fleshed ones more, with their lighter flavour; Yan had always preferred the yellow peaches, which were both more sweet and more sour. Just as well, his grandmother said; it gave them one less thing to pick fights over.

Later in the year,  during autumn and winter when the trees were bare, the trees were excellent to climb, and Lei knew the more he practised at keeping his balance and being agile, the more likely it was for Yan to finally take him away from the confines of the family home to see the world beyond their walls.

More than that, there was also the fact that their family used peach wood a lot, for many things. His father had told him it was because peach wood was powerful, and was said to be able to keep away karma demons. This, Lei understood rather less; it wasn't as if there were that many demons around to keep away, anyway. Still, he could believe what his father said, especially when he was this close to the ancient peach tree in the middle of courtyard. If he stood close enough, Lei thought he could feel _something_ from it, something as old and great as the mountain itself. Yan didn't seem all that surprised when he brought it up; then and again, he suspected Yan had seen a lot of things on the mountain, particularly things similar to this. 

"You'll like it outside the walls," Yan said, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin on her crossed arms. Her hair and robes drooped down over the edge of the bench, almost skimming the surface of the pond. "If you thought the stuff I told you about and brought back was good, it's even better seeing it yourself."

"How did you even find all those places?" Lei asked. "It's not as if _you_  had anyone to take you there."

Yan shrugged slightly. "I'm good at finding things. Besides, I had a lot of time to myself and it's not as if anyone else was asking me to join in on anything."

"Do you feel lonely?"

"Hmmm." Yan hummed, more contemplative than agreeing. "I dunno. It's not as if I was that close to any of them before, so there's nothing to miss. But yeah, I guess I kinda did, now that you mention it. Maybe. It's a big place out there, y'know? When it's a big place and you're ... you're just _small_ , you feel small, too."

"It's a good thing you have me, then."

Yan snorted. "I guess," she said, but there was no edge in her voice. "And maybe after that, one day, we might even leave the mountain, too."

Lei thought it sounded rather blasphemous of her, saying something like that. Nobody ever left the mountain. It simply wasn't done, because there were too many people out there who would want to poke their noses into their business. At least, that's what he'd heard his cousins saying sometimes. At the same time, he also rather liked it when Yan was like this, being open and honest and not getting defensive over things. So, he just said "that'd be great," and left it at that. 

* * *

They had always lived on the mountain. 

It suited Yan just fine, having her run of the place. She had never seen other people there -- or, indeed, anyone else like them. It'd been their mountain for as long as she knew -- not that it was very long -- and for as long as everyone else knew.

Perhaps if she'd been anyone else, she'd have been afraid. A mountain was a large place for a child to lose themselves on. Yan wasn't afraid, simply because she knew it was her home. At the end of the day, it would always guide her back. She treaded different paths every day, each time eager to see where they went, where they concluded. Sometimes, she found new places, buried deep in the heart of the mountains. The caves were alive, almost, with the way their walls seemed to expand and contract, like the ribs of some chthonic beast. The streams and the rivers and the waterfalls murmured to her as she padded past on quiet feet and quieter paws, guiding her to their source.

She couldn't always find her way back to the places she discovered. Sometimes, the same paths she trod led her to different places -- light-drowned clearings where the hot eye of the sun glared down at her; still pools nestled within the bowels of limestone caves, brittle calcified fangs jutting from floor and ceiling. Once, she found a stone forest somewhere past the cliffs and the waterfalls, an eerily silent place washed grey and bleached white by the sun. The ground was hot beneath her paws, burning her pads. She did not stay there for long, because she thought she could sense and feel something else, something that was both alive but wasn't, pulsing beneath her. Yan didn't know what it was; only that when the winds stirred her fur and her ears, there was power there, rich and redolent, so strong she could almost taste it at the back of her throat. No birds sang there, no weeds sought to colonise the expanse and eke out a stubborn existence amongst the cracks at the base of the great, weathered stone fingers, chipped and crumbling at parts. Nothing moved -- it was still, silent, and for the first time, she was afraid.

She never told anybody about the stone forest. But, perhaps it was pointless; perhaps they all already knew, but it wasn't hers to discover just yet. 

Lei joined her, eventually, when he was old enough to be able to keep up with her. Sometimes -- oftentimes -- they shifted when they went, because it was easier and faster to cover more ground. It felt strange to Yan, at first -- she'd long grown accustomed to stalking through the undergrowth herself, balancing on precariously-perched logs and splashing through shallow streams, leaping between stones studded across rushing rapids. She had always explored alone -- her other cousins were significantly older than her, and distant for it, though perhaps it was also partially because they were not of the main branch, and thus felt different for it. Yan felt lonely, sometimes, aching to bridge the gap -- but perhaps it was too late, for they never treated her with anything but a sort of detached deference, even though she was far younger than they were. And, well, now that Lei was old enough to be allowed to go menace the local wildlife with her, she had someone else to look out for, more responsibility than she'd had in her short life.

"Stay close," she told Lei the first time they went exploring beyond the confines of the family home, but turned to keep an eye on him regardless. He'd grown fast, but perhaps too fast for him to properly handle, moving with a distinct lack of coordination she didn't remember having, seemingly always at risk of tripping over his overlarge paws. He treaded a lot more carefully, ears angled forwards, tail sticking straight out behind him for balance, taking his time while she waited impatiently.

It was thrilling, to have someone to share all her discoveries with. Lei was appropriately awed at everything she showed him, from the strange flower grove she'd found at the heart of the forest -- the blooms there so different from the cultivated ones around their home -- to the abundance of hollows and grottoes cut deep into the heart of the mountains. In spring they chased birds and insects through the bamboo groves -- not with any intent to hunt, or kill, or eat, but just because it was fun, just because they could -- batting at brightly-coloured dragonflies and beetles that took off in a buzzing whirr of iridescent wings as soon as they felt the swish of an errant paw. The birds always saw them approaching, anyway -- their coats were far too light to be of any use in hiding them, their approach too deliberately noisy; regardless, the birds kept their distance, scattering in a burst of flapping feathers the moment Yan tried to strike. Yan liked birds; they were loud and inquisitive and pretty, and came in all kinds of shapes and sizes. Even the ones that were supposed to be the same type looked different, which she liked -- it was so unlike her family, unnaturally pale, more like the ghosts in the stories her older cousins told her about. Out of all the birds she'd seen, she liked the kingfishers the most, with their vibrant blue plumage and swift, darting flight. 

They had some jewellery at home, studded and adorned with kingfisher plumage  set in gold and silver, the feathers bright blue and green and every shade in between. Yan had never been allowed to touch them, let some wear them; she'd only seen them being used once or twice. There were portraits of her ancestors in which they were crowned with the headpieces; Yan didn't like walking past the hall of portraits with their solemn stares, seemingly following her every step. One day, her mother had told her, she would be there too. Yan fervently hoped that would never be the case. She never wanted to be a creepy portrait, frozen in time. 

No, Yan preferred it out in the forests, surrounded by the narrow, angular bamboo leaves whispering around her. She liked climbing trees and chasing birds, and knew she could catch them if she really wanted to, if she really thought to try -- but she never did. Perhaps they knew that, for when she leapt into their midst they took off lazily, wings buffeting the air. They seemed to mock her as they fled to the relative safety of the higher tree branches, too brittle to support her weight. Sometimes, she managed to snag a tail feather or two -- a small trophy to take home and claim as her own -- as the birds squawked and trilled their injured pride from the tree canopies. Yan, in turn, lifted her head skywards and bared her teeth, wrinkling her muzzle in a playful snarl; the birds chattered back, as though laughing at her, and she always laughed back.

During the summers, they would spend most of their time swimming, gravitating towards streams and rivers, ponds and waterfalls. Yan liked to float lazily through the water, barely moving enough to keep her head above the water, while Lei preferred to splash loudly through the shallows instead, watching the fish swimming inquisitively around his legs. He liked to pounce into their midst, head following their movements as they darted away but then returned out of curiosity, fins flicking against his paws. Sometimes, he would reach in and flip his paw through the water, tossing a fish into the air. Yan watched as his eyes lit up, following the squirming, glittering arc of the fish through the air before it landed back in the stream and righted itself, swimming away again in what she thought was an offended air. Perhaps her younger brother had things to teach her, after all; she'd never been good at staying still long enough for things to approach her.

Several times, Lei tried to teach her and she tried to copy him, standing still in the water and feeling it lapping over her paws. Lei was always good at things that required intense focus and concentration; when she got bored -- which was quickly enough -- Yan often chanced glances up at him, surprised to find him still poised to strike, one paw hovering in the air, eyes fixed on the darting fish in the water. The one time she did succeed in surprising the fish and flicking it out of the water, the fish repaid her in kind, tail-fin batting powerfully against her paw as she flinched in surprise and lost her balance on the slick river stones. 

As the weather cooled and the days became shorter, they took to playing tag or chasing each other through the dense undergrowth of the lowland forests, trying to wriggle through tight hollows in lichen-encrusted logs or hiding in the knots and crevices of bowls formed by thickets of strangler figs. Other times they went for higher ground, where the trees shed their leaves in a dazzling shower of warm jewel colours. Up there, the air was clearer and crisper, sharper; the winds were also stronger, stirring the leaves and buffeting at their fur. On their fourth year of exploring the area together in autumn, Yan  slipped, misjudging a step. She'd almost torn out a few claws on her left paw, and after that they both decided not to tell anyone about the incident. In hindsight, perhaps she shouldn't have worried; the fall wasn't far, wasn't something she wouldn't have been able to recover from. The first taste of fear, though, was another thing, a sharp and jolting prickle of heat that lanced through her temples.

In winter, their family was somewhat less lenient of them straying that far from the family home. During the winters, Yan and Lei trailed close to home, having to contend themselves with leaping through the snow and prodding at the frozen pond in the courtyard. Everything was hushed, muted by the heavy snowfall that came every year, without fail. There was little for them to do during winters, the mountain too treacherous to explore -- too much black ice, too much sleet and snow that would make every step slippery and treacherous, or would hide their trail and make it difficult to find their way home. The winters were always cold, always bitter, but that never mattered -- not when they had each other, not when they had the family and the home, always warm and familiar around them.

When it snowed, Yan liked to practise at being invisible. She would wake up bright and early -- when the skies were still dark, for the days were shorter in winter and sun slower to rise -- and would tear into the courtyard, almost sinking into the snow. Here, she favoured her shifted form, for even if she was lower and the snow treacherously close to her head, she was warmer, her large paws carrying her more easily over the ground. There, she would lie in wait, the snow piling over her in soft powdery flurries, until she was all but buried. There, it was eerily silent; she felt alone in the world, hearing nothing but the beating of her heart in her ears and the rasp of her own breath as she breathed in the cold, sharp air that almost seemed to cut into her throat. Sometimes, she thought she could hear every sound her body made -- and, god, what a noisy body it was. She thought she could hear the rasp of her lungs; the low protest of her stomach, reminding her she was hungry. The quiet crack and groan of the bones at the base of her skull and at the nape of her neck as she turned her head slightly, trying to see if anyone was awake and would see her buried in the snow. 

Sometimes, Yan wondered what it would be like if she didn't exist. Would the world be any different? What would change? Playing at being invisible just wasn't the same as it actually being true. It was easy enough to break this illusion, anyway; all she had to do was gather all the power she could muster in her legs and leap, springing clear of the snow. The first time she'd done that, she'd succeeded in surprising her grandmother, who cuffed her sternly -- yet affectionately -- over her ear and told her not to do that again. Yan rather liked it, when people worried about her; it made her feel wanted -- as something more than just the heir of the main branch, as the future family head, even though she knew that really wasn't the case and that was probably all they ever saw her as.

Despite all this, despite all the places they found and made their own, Yan never brought Lei to the stone forest -- not that she could, for she wasn't sure if she'd ever be able to find it again. Yet, Yan always wanted to go further, but even she knew the dangers of that -- for the mountain was large, and unforgiving, and could take just as much as they gave. It was what they had always told her, what both her mother and her grandmother had been careful to warn about.

She'd always thought of it as a friend, anyway. Always present, always watching. After all, they had always lived on the mountain.

* * *

Together with Yan, Lei had explored a large expanse of the area surrounding the family home. Their first few years were idyllic on the most part -- it had the warm, familiar comfort of _routine_  -- filled with trips to this cave or that lake, to some cliff or grove or another. The mountains were large enough that, to Lei, it seemed as though he could never see all of it within his own lifetime.  

There were some places -- some even closer to home -- that he'd never explored, though. Lei was well aware that there were some areas of the family compound that he'd never entered, and which even Yan never seemed to have any interest in going to. Lei was mainly interested in the room at the back of the compound, which stood somewhat apart from the rest of the buildings. It looked the same as all the other buildings, on the most part, save for the door -- an ornately-carved monstrosity of a door, the wood stained dark with age. 

He and Yan used to play around the mysterious building, imagining it as many things -- as a treasure vault, filled with priceless jewels; as a library, a vast compendium of information where great and terrible knowledge lurked, tucked within its shelves. Lei never liked venturing too close, though; despite its beauty there was something about it that set his teeth on edge, something which made the back of his neck prickle with unease. 

The door was always shut, despite no obvious locks or bars to keep it in place. Lei had seen it open only once, though he'd never told anybody about going inside, let alone about what he saw. 

He remembered the day clearly; it stuck out in his memory like an ulcer. He could ignore it on the most part, until something caused it to flare up again, pushing it to the forefront of his thoughts. Other times he worried away at it, pulling and picking it apart piece by piece -- as though he'd be able to make any more sense of it by doing so.

It was spring the day he found the carved door open. The slight gap between the dark peach-wood doors were all the more conspicuous for all the times he'd seen them shut, an impenetrable fortress his curiosity was never allowed to explore, but only imagine. It was early in the season, the rivers only just thawing as winter released the mountain from its rigid grasp. Lei stepped towards the door before he was even aware of what he was doing, and rested his hand against the carved panels. 

He had touched it often enough in the past, stroking the dark, age-dappled wood. He wasn't tall enough to reach most of the carvings, and had to contend himself with staring up at the snarling faces of the dragons and the tigers entwined around gnarled trees and wisps of fog. Lei had always thought they looked rather uncomfortable; it couldn't be fun, tangled up with each other like that and never able to move, frozen for eternity in the throes of some horrible squabble. It was a stupid train of thought, of course; carvings in wood couldn't feel anything.

If Lei was expecting the door to make any sound when he pushed it, it stubbornly defied him; it swung ajar with something more akin to a sigh, and he was struck by the warmth of the room. Lei was careful to shut the door behind him -- though not all the way, because he wasn't stupid, he knew better than to trap himself in somewhere unfamiliar -- and peered around the room, uncertain of what to expect.

For all intents and purposes, it looked no different from most of the other rooms in the house. It smelt of incense, sweet and heavy, lingering low in the air. There was an altar along the back of the room, glinting gold in the light that filtered in through the windows. Lei stepped closer to inspect it; he knew all about the ancestors they were meant to honour, how they were supposed to keep their memories happy, or something like that. Here, he felt a slight sense of disappointment; he'd seen ancestral altars before, and in his opinion, they did not warrant fancy doors and secret rooms that made you want to stay away.

He turned to leave; this was something he could tell Yan about later, when he saw her. Surely she'd long been curious about the inside of the room, too. Thinking about Yan made him feel guilty; Lei knew had she found the room like this, she would've gone to find him, too. After all, they always explored everything together; it was just how they'd always done things.

When he turned, there was someone at the door. It was hard to make out their shape -- and, if anything, their appearance seemed to shift and waver, as though uncertain. "Um," Lei said, not very articulately, "who're you?"

The figure took a step closer, and he saw its shape starting to change again, obscured by the faint heat-haze shimmering around it. Lei frowned; how odd, he didn't remember it being hot enough for heat hazes. The figure continued to stand in place and stare at him, its form wavering -- first short, then tall, then short again. 

It drew closer, and he realised he was looking at Yan. His sister regarded him with something that looked like curiosity, hands hidden in her oversize sleeves. "Oh," Lei said, relieved. "It's just you. Ugh, say something next time, won't you? You almost scared me out of my skin, I thought somebody was gonna come to yell at me and kick me out."

Yan didn't respond, and Lei started to feel slightly guilty. "I'm sorry for coming in here without you. The door was open, and I thought I'd check it out before ... y'know, before anyone showed up to tell me to go away." With great effort, he tore his eyes away from her face, turning back towards the altar. "Weird, huh? I wonder why they have a fancy altar and stuff here, we already have the main ancestral one elsewhere."

He heard a rustle behind him. Lei turned to see Yan tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, her eyes never leaving him. "Who're you?" she asked, irrationally echoing his earlier question.

Lei stared at her. "Um, what?" When she didn't respond he spun slowly on his heel to face her squarely. He felt cold, all of a sudden, despite the warmth in the room. "Yan, it's just me."

"You," she repeated, somewhat blankly. "I don't remember seeing you around here before."

"Uh, no." Lei felt sweat trickling down the back of his neck, and shivered. "I've never come in here before. They usually shooed me -- and you -- away when we tried to poke around. Remember?"

"Hm." She tapped her fingers idly against her upper arm. "I guess so. What're you doing in here?"

"I just told you. The door was open, I thought I'd take a look. Are you all right? You sound weird."

"I do?" Yan raised her hand, thoughtfully running her finger over her lower lip. "Huh, I see."

Lei struggled to breathe in; the air was cloying and heavy and sickly sweet with the smell of the incense, with the heat that seemed to press down on his shoulders. When had it gotten so hot? He opened his mouth, trying to draw in a deeper breath, feeling his throat closing in on itself.

Yan closed the gap between them, and Lei had to lift his chin to look her in the eye. For the first time, he felt uncertain; since when had she been that much taller than him? Since when had he felt afraid, being this close to her?

"Oh my, just look at you ... aren't you the sweetest little thing," she murmured, almost to herself. She rested her hand against his face, fingers cupping his cheek. "So worried about little old me. Where have they been hiding you?"

"I ... I ..." Lei blinked, struggling to keep his eyes open, to keep her in sight. He could smell sandalwood, and magnolias. He was starting to feel sick and light-headed. "Yan, what're you saying?"

She bent down until she was eye-to-eye with him. For the first time, Lei got a better look at her eyes. He squinted, a little; he knew Yan had hazel eyes, closer to amber sometimes in the light. He definitely did not remember her having eyes this bright, this gold. His skin prickled; she was close, uncomfortably close, uncomfortably warm. "You're ..."

Yan swept her other hand over his mouth; he sputtered, a little, at the weight of the heavy silk. "Shhh," she hissed. Her hand slid lower down his face; she had him by the jaw, scrutinising. "You look very similar," she remarked, stroking his cheek with her thumb. "Well then, I guess that just means I don't need to ask to know who you are. Then and again ..." She cocked her head to the side and gently pushed his jaw, nudging his head up. "You lot all look kinda similar. A lot of light hair and light eyes." She tutted, turning his head again slightly. "It gets hard to tell you all apart after a while. You smell different, though. You feel different."

Lei felt his eyes watering; when he blinked, several other things came into focus. The scrolls and talismans, crisscrossed across the ceiling beams, arrays to ward and seal inscribed on them in his grandmother's loose, flowing script; some of the scrolls looked older still, the ink faded, the paper mottled with age, gold leaf glinting dully along their edges. Out of the corner of his eye, Lei could see several ornate incense burners, shaped like the mountain itself, aromatic smoke rising from the openings in lazy spirals. He took half a step back, barely enough to create a distance between them; his legs were trembling, threatening to give way.

Yan didn't seem all that put out. She leaned over him, her hair tickling his cheeks. Terrified, Lei shut his eyes, shrinking away as her overbearing warmth seemed to come closer and closer. Her breath was warm against his cheek; she seemed to be contemplating what to do next. He could feel his heart pounding, and he was certain she could feel it too. Whoever this was, it wasn't Yan. That much, he was certain of. 

She lingered closer, then appeared to reconsider. Reaching forwards, she stroked his forehead, sweeping his hair back. Cradling his face with both hands, she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. Lei's eyes snapped open. Yan smiled -- and it was a frightening smile, indulgent and knowing all at the same time. "We'll have none of that just yet," she said and laughed at the expression on his face. "Can't have them blaming me for corrupting you. What a shame." Still smiling, she straightened -- and finally let him go. "It'll all fall into place eventually, though. It's only a matter of time. That's just how your family works."

Lei reached up, hand shaking as he touched his forehead. He thought he could feel his skin prickling and burning. "Yan," he said again, voice cracking. She hushed him, smiling her unnerving smile.

"Ah ... just a thought. Now I'm wondering what would've happened if you were the heir, instead of her," she said; she sounded amused, almost. "What would change? What would stay the same?" She circled behind him, her clothes rustling, dragging against the ground. Before Lei could turn, she rested a hand on his shoulder, her touch deceptively light. "Well enough of that, it's time for you to get going. Before anyone finds us. You weren't supposed to be here. They keep people out for a reason, you know." She ruffled his hair, a gesture that was achingly -- and terrifyingly -- familiar. "It's a lot safer that way, even if I can't harm anyone with your family's blood ... and how strongly it runs through you, too. The blood will out, after all. Even though the two of you placed down your roots in different places -- your family is such a strange one, really, I'll never understand you -- you really are quite similar."

"Who're you?" Lei asked again, his voice sounding small and frightened to his own ears.

She waved dismissively, sleeves flapping. "Oh, nobody important. Don't you worry. And," she added, whispering into his ear, "just between you and me ... you were never here. You saw nothing." She took her hand off his shoulder and then gave him a little push, square in the back. "Now off you go, and don't come back if you know what's good for you."

Lei stumbled a bit, his knees almost buckling. He made it to the door without falling over, still aware of Yan -- or whoever that was who looked and sounded just like her -- watching him, her eyes burning into the back of his head. 

He almost fell through the door, the carvings digging into his palms. When he chanced a last glance back, Yan was still watching him, arms crossed. She stood with her back to the altar, its elaborate carvings jutting out from either side of her head. They looked like horns, almost, gnarled and twisting and elaborately chiseled with intertwined shapes. Her shadow stretched out on the floor before her, impossibly tall and impossibly long, the edges blurred and indistinct; for a moment, Lei thought it looked serpentine, almost. When he blinked it was normal again, Yan-shaped and familiar. He turned around, determined not to keep looking, just in case it changed again. 

Lei shut the door behind him and then leaned against it, willing his legs to stop shaking. After the heavy, heady heat of the room, the air outside was cold. The sun was too bright, the drone of insects far too loud. His face burned from where the-Yan-that-wasn't had touched it; he was almost certain she'd left marks of some kind, that everyone would be able to see how he'd disobeyed everyone and gone into the sealed room.

"Lei!"

He flinched, bumping against the carvings; one of the dragons' snouts jabbed him sharply in the small of the back. Yan strolled up to him, carrying a small glut of berries in her huge sleeves. "Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you."

"Somewhere," he said. Yan raised her brows at him. "Are you all right? You look awful. Are you gonna be sick? If you're gonna be sick, you better tell me before you throw up all over me." When he didn't reply, she sighed. "I was joking. Here, have some." She offered him the berries, some almost rolling free from her makeshift basket. Lei hesitated and took one. 

"'m fine." He glanced up, and immediately regretted doing so. Yan was biting into another handful of berries; her lips and teeth were stained a dark, sticky red with juice. He looked away.

Lei bit into the berry and wrinkled his nose. Just his luck, he'd chosen a mouldy one. Yan caught his disgruntled expression and giggled a bit, and offered him another handful. Lei stared down at the berries, small and shiny and bright and red. He felt his head starting to spin. "I think I'll pass," he blurted out, and turned away.

Yan stopped chewing and swallowed. "Are you sure you're fine?" she asked. She was no longer smiling. Lei thought of the girl in the room, with Yan's face and Yan's voice; of her sharp smile and her burning touch and the brush of her lips against his skin; of her twisting and writhing shadow. "Yeah," he said. He had to repeat himself when the word caught in his throat, struggling to escape. "Everything's fine."


End file.
